


Brittle in The Light

by ellesmer_joe3



Series: At Once The Shame and Glory [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic with a touch of crazy cannibalism, F/M, Post-Episode: s02e05 Mukozuke, Pumpkin pie, Whipped Cream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 19:30:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18879742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellesmer_joe3/pseuds/ellesmer_joe3
Summary: She raises her head and looks at him as if he’s an angel come down from heaven. Lucifer, perhaps, but Hannibal completed his fall years and years ago and Heather knows that, and still she follows his tracks.(Two moments: when Hannibal finds comfort in Heather's presence, and when Heather finds comfort in his.)





	Brittle in The Light

**Author's Note:**

> yall should know by now that this series is VERY non-linear. For anyone who gets confused though, don't be afraid to drop your questions in the comments! I'll do my best to answer them ASAP :)

_After the drugs have worn off_

_and we’re brittle in the light,_

_will you still be there for me?_

_Still do things for me?_

**_Lyrics from “Visiting” by Pinegrove_ **

.

Hannibal has not seen Heather in a while. Now, after having been attacked, nearly killed, and Jack suggesting he take a temporary leave-of-absence in order for his wounds to heal, Hannibal doesn’t think there is a better opportunity for him to pay her a quick visit.

“Hannibal!”

She opens her door with a smile; she must have looked through the peephole. Then, her gaze falls on his neck. The long, circling bruise from where the noose dug into his skin is yet to fade. As Heather stares, the light in her eyes diminishes and the blood drains from her face.

“Who did _that?_ ” Her voice breaks. She clears her throat, tries again. “You… You didn’t—”

Her eyes are wide and she is looking at him differently, almost as if he would turn around and run at any moment. He scoffs inwardly.

“No,” he says. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” She moves to the side, allowing him entry. The door creaks slightly when she closes it and Hannibal makes a mental note to remind her to oil the hinges.

He has only been inside her home twice, enough to be familiar with everything. Random surfaces are littered with pages ripped from a notepad, sketches and rushed paintings on watercolor paper. Heather leads him to the couch in the center of the room and bids him to sit down while hurriedly clearing the mess of plates and wrappers from the coffee table.

“Sorry, I… I wasn’t expecting company.”

“It’s no problem, although you should be taking better care of yourself. And of your flat.”

Chastised, she proceeds to flitter about the apartment, making several trips to the garbage bin before the place looks clean enough for company. Hannibal indulges her with a smile that shows some of his teeth. “Much better.”

Heather perks up considerably at that; otherwise she is nervous, evident in the way she is wringing her hands. “I would offer you a drink, but you don’t seem like someone who drinks cheap beer.”

He tilts his head. “Water would be fine.”

She pours from the pitcher chilled in the fridge and sets the glass down in front of him. He hesitates. Swallowing doesn’t take as much effort as it did a few days prior, but it’s still more of a chore than it should be. Heather seems to pick up on this. Acting nonchalant, she stands up again and opens up a bottle of beer from the fridge. She takes her time.

“When is your next gig?” Hannibal asks. It is a signal for her to return, which she does.

“Two weeks,” she replies and he hears the pride in her voice. He is proud, too. Galleries can’t get enough of her. “I’m almost finished with everything, but one piece has been giving me trouble. I’ve had to redo it twice.”

“Lacking in inspiration?”

“Well, yes… but I know what I want it to look like.”

“The execution, then.” His eyes flicker to the side, into her bedroom, where the edge of a white canvas peeks at him from past the doorframe. “May I see?”

She blushes prettily, blinking hard. “It’s… sorry, but for lack of a better word, it’s shit right now. There’s practically nothing there yet.”

“Which makes it all the more open to possible improvement.”

“It’s not my best.”

“Not yet.”

Conceding defeat, she puts her beer down on the coffee table and makes her way to the bedroom. Hannibal expects that she will bring out the canvas for him to see but he saves her the trip, instead trailing after her. She startles a bit upon hearing his footsteps and then seems to wilt a bit. Curling in on herself. Resigned.

Hannibal gazes blankly at the unfinished image before him. She wasn’t lying, there isn’t anything much yet apart from light outlines made by a pencil and some dabs of white, grey, brown and blue. But he knows what she is making.

“It’s a skull,” he says.

“Yes, with a pair of antlers growing out of it, and flowers growing out of the antlers.”

The corner of his mouth twitches upward slightly. “I’m glad to know you gained some stimulation from our brief trips to my office.”

“Never did get that stag out of my head.” She shakes her head. “Look, this is weird. We’re standing here talking about my crap piece when you’ve obviously been hurt. Can we talk about that instead?”

“Has it occurred to you, perhaps, that I _don’t_ want to talk about it?”

She clutches his forearm, right where the stitches are. And he tries not to get angry because she couldn’t have known, but it stings and the skull is glaring at him from eyeless sockets. He must have winced or shown some measure of pain, because Heather snatches her hand back. There is panic on her face.

“Please,” she whispers. Desperation wordlessly conveyed in the glassy sheen that has appeared on her eyes.

He closes his eyes and sighs. “Very well. But you must continue working on your piece while I speak.”

“But…”

A beat passes. Two. When Hannibal glances at her out of the corner of his eye, he finds that she has retrieved a paintbrush and a palette – most probably from beneath her bed. She offers a smile. “Okay.”

And so the afternoon passes: with her adding bits and pieces to her puzzle yet unsolved, and him recounting the tale of Will Graham. Ultimately, he must arrive at the fact that Will tried to have Hannibal killed. He is afraid that Heather will drop her brush or some such melodrama, but her hand only stills, trembling near the canvas for a bit before she finally puts her brush and palette down.

“The orderly, he…” She swallows. “He slit your wrists?”

Hannibal nods.

“Did I reopen the stitches when I…”

“No, they are intact.”

“You almost died and I was here, just…” She releases a shaky breath, running a hand over her face. A smudge of blue paint makes it onto her cheek.

“You couldn’t have known,” he offers.

“That would have sucked,” she says in return. “You, dying.”

“Indeed.”

A wry smile curls up his lips, one she waveringly returns. Hannibal gazes at her piece once more, now at least half finished, and nods assuredly. “Good. A bit more red here, I think. Dinner?”

“I have nothing here.”

“My place then. I’ll cook.”

She smiles. “Give me five minutes to get the paint off me and I’m all yours.”

He turns to her and taps at the line of paint on her cheek. “You’re lovely.”

That earns him another blush. His grin is shark-like as she slips past him.

“Five minutes.”

.

.

In a much, much later time, when Heather knows what ( _who_ ) he is and Hannibal has taken her to his bed, he wakes up to sunlight dimmed by curtains, and deliciously sore muscles.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

Hannibal blinks the sleep from his eyes and finds Heather sitting by the window, cross-legged and naked save for his dress shirt from the night before. Her hair is a mess. On her knee is one of her smaller sketchbooks, which she slyly tilts away from him.

“I’m not done,” she murmurs. “Stay still, please.”

He hums and relaxes back into the sheets, closing his eyes once more. “Only because you asked so nicely.”

He doesn’t fall asleep again, but the music of birds chirping outside and the soft scratching of Heather’s pencil on paper are enough to lull him into a light doze. The ticking clock above the entryway allows him to keep track of the time that passes.

After a few minutes, the mattress dips beside him. Heather presses her body close to his, holding her sketch out for him to peruse with heavy-lidded eyes. On the paper, she has captured his likeness in sleep. The light and shadows play along the smooth lines of his body and the sheets are pulled up just above his waist, saving his modesty. At the thought of her actually attempting to draw his cock, his eyes stray upwards to where she is watching him with wide, expectant eyes. Always seeking approval.

“It’s a good effort,” he says.

“You don’t like it.”

“I do like it, which is the reason you won’t be getting it back.”

Without another word he tears the page out, handing her only the sketchbook in return.

“That’s alright. It was for you anyway.” She smiles indulgingly. Her hand slides down his arm, past the raised scar on the inside of his wrist, and laces their fingers together. “Happy birthday, Hannibal.”

He kisses the top of her head, humming in curiosity. “Did Alana tell you?”

“She said she threw you a surprise dinner party once.”

“The first and last. I don’t like surprises.”

“Then I should probably tell you about the surprise I have planned for you tonight.”

“Nothing too extreme, I hope.”

“Just dinner. It’s your house, after all. I promise not to burn it down.”

“And for dessert?”

Heather teasingly licks at the lobe of his ear, smiling. “Me, covered in fondue and whipped cream, with a cherry on top – if you’re lucky.”

Hannibal makes a move to press her more tightly against him, the skin around his eyes crinkling in delight, but she grabs his wrists and gently extracts herself from him. He feels cold almost immediately.

She is shaking her head. “Uh-uh. I have errands to run and you have people to see.”

“At least join me for a shower?”

“Just a shower.”

He sighs, disappointed, but the lingering kiss she leaves on his cheek is good consolation – at least good enough to last until dinner.

.

The house smells like herbs and baked chicken when Hannibal steps into the foyer. He expects dinner to be nearly prepared, if not plated and waiting for him in the dining room already, along with Heather. Alana’s gift – two tickets to the Lyric Opera House – is left in the living room, along with his suit jacket. On his way to his office, he walks by the kitchen. There is the soft hum of the refrigerator and the sound of water running.

Otherwise, it is entirely too quiet.

“Heather?” he calls, stopping just shy from the door into his office.

When there is no reply, he leaves his briefcase by the entryway and peeks into the kitchen. Bowls of ingredients line the counter. Raw chicken breasts and prosciutto slices have been left out, the faucet is running, there is a knife on the floor and Heather is nowhere to be seen.

Hannibal picks up the knife. He is moving to turn the faucet off when he senses a change in the air. A tilt of his head, a silent, drawn-out inhale and – there. He scents someone unfamiliar.

“How did you get in?” he asks, interested despite the severity of the situation.

“Picked the lock on the door.”

Hannibal turns around to see a gun with a silencer pointed at him. The intruder is an inch or two shorter than him but of stockier build, dressed head to toe in black with a balaclava covering his face. Hannibal has no way of identifying him.

“May I ask why?”

“I wanted to see who Heather Kaelin was so hung up about that she’d dedicate an entire row of paintings for them.”

An admirer, then, or perhaps an ex-lover. It doesn’t matter. Hannibal fingers the heel of the knife in his hand and contemplates the next course of action.

“What’s so special about you?” the stranger says. “Is it because you’re rich?”

“And I can cook.” Hannibal shrugs. “I am also incredibly light on my feet.”

He flips the knife over in his hand and throws it across the room. The intruder manages to fire a single shot that whizzes past Hannibal’s ear before the knife buries itself into his shoulder. He yells, dropping the gun. It hits the floor before Hannibal can catch it and shoots a hole into the cupboard. Hannibal lands two swift hits to the intruder’s ribs and traps him in a chokehold. He presses on the man’s bleeding wound, holding fast as he struggles before ultimately going limp, unconscious.

Straightening up, Hannibal allows the intruder to drop to the ground. Blood is splattered on the sleeve of Hannibal’s shirt and he glares at the red with distaste. When the balaclava is removed, Hannibal takes in the blond hair and young but rugged features. Not a man, but a boy. With a dish towel, Hannibal staunches the bleeding on the intruder’s shoulder and drags him away from the kitchen.

He finds Heather in the storage room, gagged and tied up. One wrist is rubbed raw and bloody and the other is well on its way to being the same as she struggles against the rope tying her to the wall.

When she sees him, a sob of relief escapes her through the gag. Hannibal leaves the boy and goes to her, crouching to her level and tugging the cloth out of her mouth.

“I’m so sorry, Hannibal. I just went out to buy pumpkin pie and then I got back and started wrapping the chicken and he came up from behind me and knocked me out and when I woke up I was here and I heard you come in and I tried to get out and help you I swear but—”

“Heather, Heather. Breathe.” Hannibal quickly takes not of how pale she is. He doesn’t want her working herself up into a faint. “I understand. It’s not your fault.”

His hands frame her cheeks and she leans into them, sweaty and trembling. He waits for her to calm down before tapping her chin. She raises her head and looks at him as if he’s an angel come down from heaven. Lucifer, perhaps, but Hannibal completed his fall years and years ago and Heather knows that, and still she follows his tracks.

He smiles. “What’s this I hear about pumpkin pie?”

“For uh… for dessert.”

“I thought I would be having you for dessert.”

“Well, sure, I mean… _after_ the pie…” She blushes.

“How about you finish up with dinner while I deal with the boy.”

Her gaze falls to the body slumped on the floor behind him, and her nostrils flare.

“Do you know him?” Hannibal asks carefully.

“Not his name,” Heather says. “But I’ve seen him enough times in my exhibitions to know his face.”

“He’s been stalking you.”

“Yeah. Crazy son of a bitch.”

He taps her chin again. “Language.”

“Sorry.”

Hannibal enlists Heather’s help to get the John Doe into the basement, after which he ushers her up the stairs to continue cooking dinner. He makes quick work with the boy’s organs, harvesting the liver and the kidneys, and dumps the body into the freezer where it will stay until Hannibal has the time to bring it back out and decorate it properly.

Dinner is a delicious but simple affair. Heather prepared prosciutto-wrapped chicken with burst tomato pasta on the side. When it is time for dessert, she brings out the pumpkin pie and tops their slices with a generous amount of homemade whipped cream. There is no fondue and no cherries, which she apologizes for. Of course, eventually, the whipped cream merely ends up on her breasts and stomach and he licks it all off, but she is happy and laughing even with the knowledge of the dead body in his basement.

Hannibal will not do everything for her – she does not need everything – but he will do what he can.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The last line is lifted from Richard Siken’s collection of poems War of the Foxes: “I want to give you more, but not everything. You don’t need everything.”


End file.
